Mia Evian has to piece together the mystery of Zack Maddox, the bad boy whose life she saved, while simultaneously keeping her own crumbling life together before Zack ends up in trouble again - or worse yet, dead.
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The temptation to rip open these envelopes and devour their contents has been gnawing at me since I got my hands on them. I run my fingers along the edge of the crisp paper as the bus halts at a traffic light, and I take in my surroundings. I recognise an Italian restaurant in the distance, which lets me know I should arrive within the next five minutes or so. I don't really care much about what the contents of my envelope reveal, in all honesty. Of course I want to have passed my exams, but so much other crap has happened recently that it feels like such an irrelevant fragment of my life.
The bus begins moving again, and I turn my attention away from the envelopes in my hands. I'm nervous. I'm not quite sure why because I've made this journey plenty of times by now. I figure it must be the unknown contents of the other envelope that's triggering this anxiety. I want its content to be glowing and perfect, and all things considered, I realise that's incredibly unlikely. I try my best to shake away this feeling of intense uncertainty, and focus on the greenery outside the bus window.
Once I arrive, I undergo the usual mundane, and somewhat dehumanising, routine. I had to declare the envelopes beforehand, and I'd hoped it would mean they'd remain unopened, but they're torn apart and inspected as if they're hazardous, and it sort of pisses me off. I make a poor attempt to close them back up as I enter the large room, and am so focused on doing so that I almost forget where I am as I sit down beside the small table.
'Euphemia, what a pleasant surprise.'
With his wavy hair unkempt and his eyes big and wide, Preston flashes me the uneven smirk I love to hate.
'You know every time you call me that, I hate you that little bit more, right?'
'N'aw, thanks. I've got no idea how I endure this prison without your witty charm as a solace.'
'It's not a prison,' I intersect.
He rolls his eyes. It's not a prison, it's not. It's a Young Offender Institution, which as well as being a bit of a mouthful, makes it sound far less serious than it is. Regardless, Preston never refers to it as such.
All things considered, he's lucky. After he made an official statement, the ball started rolling pretty quickly. I went with him to the police station the morning after the fire, and he wasn't the slightest bit anxious. In fact, I don't think I've seen anyone ever look more at peace in my life. Anwen was soon out, and he was soon in. She fought against it at first, denied what Preston had told the authorities, but it quickly dawned on her that this is something he wanted, something he needed. There were issues with Anwen having perverted the cause of justice, but she'd served so many years already that she was pardoned.
It's incredible, really, how simple it was. One day she was locked up, and the next she had all the freedom in the world. Custody over Matty isn't quite so easy. Preston was sentenced to eighteen months for involuntary manslaughter. Eighteen months. Not even two years, while his mum spent over five years in prison for a crime she didn't commit. Even worse is the reality that if Anwen had been honest in the first place, it's unlikely anyone would've had to spend any time anywhere. I mean, Preston was thirteen. It was an accident. He was scared.
